


Now high above your golden veins (the life, the life, the life)

by little_fella (na_shao)



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Post-Grindelwald, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-19
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2019-01-20 01:37:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12422337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/na_shao/pseuds/little_fella
Summary: People can get used to anything out of spite and worry; he feels like it is the only thing he's learned that's of any use from his own story; and too soon, too soon the cold could kill the last blooms of roses and hydrangea but he will never let it happen to Percival.





	Now high above your golden veins (the life, the life, the life)

**Author's Note:**

> A little something for my dearest partner in crime [Lynx](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LotusRox/pseuds/LotusRox) who deserves the very best— you are wonderful and I hope you enjoy this, honey.
> 
> I just— really love how these two can get the best out of each other— how they both support the other.
> 
> I'm a big sap at heart in the middle of all the angst, as you can see. /n/
> 
> Title comes from _Golden Veins_ by Two Door Cinema Club.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy reading this, and as usual... I will crawl back to my cave and hide there anxiously.

Percival comes home looking so dejected that evening that Credence’s breath catches in his throat at the sight, and he wants nothing more than to press kisses against his eyes to soothe the hurt he’s seeing there, wrecking him in half.

He doesn’t talk, only looks at him with a gray, lost stare dripping with exhaustion and heartbreak, pure, troubled gasoline all over his face as he dusts the city’s dirt from his coat.

Credence doesn’t ask, doesn’t pry. He moves closer, his hands offering callouses, offering struggle, hugs his husband softly and kisses him so carefully he’s actually afraid of breaking him— it never happens, Graves looking so frail and full of _fear._ It never happens in broad daylight, and is almost exclusively confined to their bedroom, remnants of much darker days sometimes spilling before his eyelids during the night.

His hand brushes his soft, dark hair, and his wedding ring catches in the bangs. It looks like stars have melted in Graves’ short curls and Credence smiles tentatively at him, pouring his love and affection into their souldbond. His magic flutters quietly, throbbing mildly against his ribcage as it tries to reach out for the other man, but his mind is sealed and his magic too dark to be approached; only does his Obscurus feel crippling anxiety and growing rage directed at nothing and everything all at once, a whirlwind of crushed red poppies and bruises travelling up a river of ribs.

_They all keep asking for the Percival who’s gone, aren’t they? They keep hoping to see someone who’s long gone reappear._

An endless new place his husband himself hasn’t quite reached yet; and the pain remains, the nightmares and new shape of his body remain— there is so little Credence can do. Birds will be back as though nothing has happened; perhaps that’s the most comforting thought, really, to know that life still happens, to know that things are still in motion, even when Percival can’t remember himself as that person they all get sad about not seeing anymore.

They all want a Percival who has vanished— yet, what they probably don’t know is that, sometimes, being least, being lost, being _another_ is when people are most themselves; are most of what they happen to be.

_That’s what they all say, don’t they? “Please hurry back home, please come back.” But this part of you, this other you is dead— it’s only its ghost that my lips are able to kiss; and I don’t want this, not when I have you, this shape of you._

Everything comes to an end and every piece of marble was once beaten into shape to become something else; to rise from piles of ashes and hold up to the flame of an unfamiliar mirror.

Percival leans into the dark blue shade of the door behind him, a shadow of himself, and closes his eyes. The rhythm of his heartbeat and breathing becomes him entirely— he’s ripples that Credence can barely contain, and so he squeezes his eyes shut too, guides him quietly to the bedroom.

It’s not until later when they’re in bed that Graves tries to speak.

Credence is buried inside him and moves with a slow, heated intensity that makes Graves’ toes curl as he digs his fingers into Credence’s hips, leaving red, angry marks there, his eyes roaming over the beautiful image of his husband— Credence’s hair is disheveled and loose, brushing past Graves’ chest, and he pulls him closer and closer until their chests are pressed tight together and there is no space left between them, because he needs it, needs so much it’s starting to _hurt_ to be even inches away from Credence.

Credence kisses him soft and slow, licking the inside of his mouth, then manages to press wet kisses to Graves’ neck, where his left shoulder meets his neck, biting him and licking it afterward, fizzy liquid in his thick, congested veins, adrenaline and dizzy daydreams exploding right then, right there.

”You’re so tight and so good, darling,” Credence moans against Graves’ lips, and the endearment rolls easily off his tongue, his ring glinting softly in the dim light of the room, soft orange hues painting the walls with a delicate shade of sunset.

“I—” Graves starts, then shudders when Credence rolls his hips just right, hitting him deep, and he keeps rocking his hips against him slowly, excruciatingly slowly, driving Graves mad, and the words die on his tongue, lost in pleasure and focusing entirely on his husband. Credence doesn’t push, lets Percival come to him in his own terms, in his words, his own time.

They’re soon tipping over the edge together and Credence kisses him again, always, wet and messy and full of emotions as his eyes flutter shut and white galaxies explode before him, Graves following him soon after as he spills between them, his strong arms holding Credence flush against him.

Credence is still inside of him and he’s never looked more beautiful _(Graves doesn’t keep count of the number of times it does happen, to be fair, because it happens all the freaking time)_ than at this moment, a soft smile tugging at his lips, his long hair framing his lovely face in a curtain of darkness aflame with blue, silver shadows.

“I love you,” Percival murmurs, staring right into his amber eyes, and Credence’s smile grows, blooms like a rose being flattered by the sun. “I love you so much and I’m so afraid that you are going to disappear again.”

_I’m so afraid that you are going to leave and never come back to me._

“I’m here, sweetheart,” Credence replies gently, traces the tight lines of the older man’s face; outside, the wind pulls back through the trees. “I’m not going anywhere. I don’t want to, you should know that.”

At that, there’s a soft rattling inside Credence’s ribcage, the Obscurus manifesting and gnawing a little at the muscles and veins, shreds like coals or black snow pouring out of him, surfacing at the tip of his fingers and upon the back of his hands— lost leaves waiting to come back, from time to time, sometimes emerald, sometimes sunkissed, sometimes suntanned, often blushing scarlet.

“Even the Obscurus is holding on to you,” he adds with a soft laugh, and Percival cannot help the way his chest heaves— cannot help the way he loves Credence with so much sunlight and adoration that he could burst into galaxies and become dust at the mere possibility of spending forever with him.

He’s afraid of the dreadful wake— of the fading of his mind.

Of waking up to an empty space right next to his body, right next to his heart.

And perhaps—

Perhaps Percival could get— _happy,_ for Credence. Credence in a splash of sunlight at the foot of a flight of stairs leading to his Healer’s office—

Credence without him.

_Could you? Could you handle seeing him with someone else, elsewhere, wearing someone else’s ring and love bites? Wearing a necklace of purple hickeys that can be played together to form a melody— a piano of sorts, a piano of flesh and bones and a voice that allows itself to rise at last._

_The quickening pulse through his underbelly—_

“I’m— _defective,_ Credence, I don’t want to hold you back. It’s unfair to you—”

“Then _why_ did you marry me, if that’s the case? Surely, you are much more rational than this, Mr. Graves.” The younger man arches an eyebrow because such a _hilarious_ statement demands his best amused — and slightly frustrated — smirk.

Percival stares at him with wide eyes, unable to answer.

_The seam of his mouth glued shut._

_Wasn’t the ice supposed to melt once he was rescued? Wasn’t the night supposed to end?_

“Well?” Credence inquires, eyebrow still arched and soft tongue licking at his red lips.

“I—” and Percival pauses, closes his eyes, sighs. “I don’t know. I— Credence, really, it’s—”

_Didn’t we plant the seeds of something new with our marriage, with your lips sealed upon mine?_

“Perce,” Credence whispers softly against his lips, “stop it. You make it sound like I married you out of pity or— or as if I had _no saying_ in this. You _might_ want to know that I do love you and that it is _why_ I agreed to wear your ring, you idiot, if you still happen to have any doubts.”

His expression is fondly exasperated; Percival holds Credence’s hand up to his mouth, and kisses his palm. He smells the air; feels the pulse of thickening blood along the seam of his lips. The smell of cedarwood and grilled apples— most intense when the wind blows through Credence’s dark, curly locks of hair when the trees begin their blue-black dance as twilight rolls over and gives itself to the night.

“I’m exhausted, baby, I really am,” he mouths against the small expanse of pink, veined flesh; if only he could blossom out of himself and grasp at another skin, becoming something else entirely. “I’m definitely not the man you got to know before— and everyone expects me to be the Percival Graves of the past.”

Credence has a slight nervous flip in his stomach because he knows where this is leading. “And what about it? Do you have so little faith in me, Percival, that you would think I would— throw you away or love you less because of what happened?”

There’s— a vague sense of fury, in the younger man’s voice, a subtle discord that spells _do you think me so little that I would toss you away for things you cannot control? Do you think me so selfish that I would leave you for wounds you cannot unroll?_

People can get used to anything out of spite and worry; he feels like it is the only thing he's learned that's of any use from his own story; and too soon, too soon the cold could kill the last blooms of roses and hydrangea but he will never let it happen to Percival.

“Of course not,” Percival growls, hurt at the insinuation and frustrated with the way his words are shaped, a savage bite to his voice. “It is that I have so little faith in _me_ , Credence. You deserve better.”

A sharp sting slices through Percival’s ribs and he lets out a groan as his husband tightens his hold on his waist with magic-infused fingers, eyes turning a little gray, a little white at the edges; stars that burn a sharp, white nacre until they evaporate.

“Percival Graves,” he starts, voice razor-sharp and shrunken, “if you are trying to drive me away, it’s not working.” He slowly reaches up with his hand and cups Percival’s face, letting his long, scarred fingers brush over the smattering of dark stubble on his jaw; watches as his eyes fall half-shut and his head tilts imperceptibly into the caress, before shuffling down on the bed a little, enough until Credence is at the perfect angle to hug Percival’s waist in order to tuck his head safely under his chin. “I’m perfectly fine where I am, and it is with _you,_ ” he whispers, his lips brushing gently against Percival’s clavicle with each word. Percival has both of his arms clenched possessively around his husband’s waist, Credence’s face smushed into the curve of his neck, and one of his legs insinuated between his thighs— and it’s perfect.

It is.

It will always be.

He will always wonder, somehow; of course he will, and will feel the crushing weight of not being good enough, of losing Credence, of him not belonging anymore— but he does. _He’s his._

Credence’s skin is warm against his; and Percival has to swallow the strain in the throat, the lump that keeps forming over and over again. He’s never going to get tired of it, of having this beautiful soul in his arms, in his bed; he’s never going to get tired of watching the low light reflecting gently upon the melted gold of his ring— upon the soft whiskey dress of Credence’s warm eyes.

His hands slides down his boy’s back and curves around his ass, pulling them even closer together; the younger man nuzzles his face into the crook of his neck and breathes him in— these black dandelions that are so much like a small explosion along the curve of his nose.

In the loneliness of the night, each one of them is comforted by the other’s warmth; the feeble light of candles that creeps across and falls upon his boy’s slender, naked back with its marbles of scars and the way Credence flushes softly, the color of sunset, spewing golden blood all over his face.

Percival is learning to breathe again while strolling among the shadows of everyone he has ever loved— pushing death away to only feel the cold intake of breath curling in his ever growing lungs _(a flower, a bloom, a cold spring rising)._ Cold but necessary— cold but accompanied by Credence’s quiet kisses.

 

* * *

 

It’s dark when Credence eventually wakes up; the curtains in their bedroom are drawn and he’s curled up in bed, Percival hugging his back, his cold feet sliding from time to time on his ankles, them both tangled in spirits of morning light.

There’s a sore ache in his bones, a quiet pain creeping up his spine, but Percival is here, right there, against him, and it’s more than enough, and there’s warmth blossoming in his belly at the idea that he is able to wake up to find himself holding hands with him; his Percival, dearest Percival, almost lost to death and acrid vapors of phosphorus.

Percival’s head perks up slightly, having felt Credence shift in his embrace, and he presses a soft kiss to his temple, his hands sliding around his waist. His beloved body, beloved Credence— the quiet breathing that tells him, _I am alive, my love,_ that also happens to mean _you are alive, Percival_.

”We’re safe,” he murmurs against his peachy skin, and that’s all Credence needs to hear now, safe between his husband’s arms, warm and held, the morning lights blinking back at him like fireflies during summer as Percival smells the skin of his stomach and nibbles at the meat from behind Credence’s generous thighs— rosemary and woodsmoke, wet and heated kisses— trailing a hand down between his thighs to card through Percival's hair, slightly damp with sweat as he sucks on Credence’s cock. He takes one hand off his soft thigh to smooth up his belly, hand plastered there, warm, strong— pulsing with magic.

Branding.

 _Mine,_ it murmurs. _Mine._

The chilling realisation dawning on him that, from this moment on, or ever since he laid eyes upon this boy frozen to the bone handing leaflets, Percival could never live without him.

They end up dozing off together through the rays of the pink, early dawn kissing their cheeks and bathing their heads gold where the soft rays coat their hair with glitter, the sulfur of the wakening day never deterring them.


End file.
